Free Stay Where You Are and Then Leave by John Boyne

there, and it’s hard not to imagine that she was playing one of them off against the other. Ever been to Cornwall, Alfie?”
    â€œNo, sir,” said Alfie.
    â€œBeautiful part of the world. Where do you go on your holidays, then? The Lake District? Wales? Somewhere up north?”
    Alfie tried not to laugh. Sometimes adults asked the stupidest questions. He’d never been on a holiday in his life. He wasn’t even entirely sure what you did on one. Was it the same things you did on any other day, only in a different location? If his family went on holiday, would he be shining shoes on Blackpool Pier? Would Granny Summerfield be looking for a bit of a gossip at Stonehenge? Would Margie be struggling to make ends meet on the Isle of Wight?
    â€œOf course, things worked out quite well for the Cattermole boy in the end,” continued Mr. Podgett, not waiting for an answer. “Harriet told me that he wasn’t able to go to the war on account of how his leg never healed correctly afterwards, but I can’t imagine that had anything to do with Billy. Might have even done it deliberately to avoid being conscripted. You hear stories like that all the time, don’t you? Disgraceful business. I’d have more respect for a conchie than I would for someone like that. No, if you ask me, Billy did the boy a favor, and now look at him! Somewhere in the middle of Europe, leading five hundred men in and out of danger zones, putting the welfare of his country before his own safety. He wrote to his mother recently and said that he hoped the war would never end, that’s how much he enjoys the fighting, but I can’t imagine he meant it. Everyone wants the war to end. Mrs. Podgett, she burst into tears when she read that letter; she said that it was all our fault that he turned out like he did, but I said, ‘Alice, what are you talking about? Our son has a thousand men under his command and he’s proved his worth time and again, leading all those brave men into battle, writing to the parents of every boy who’s been killed. Why, he can’t even go over the top himself anymore on account of how much writing he has to do.’ No, he’s a fine boy, Alfie, I’m proud of him, but it says here”—and with that he tapped on the newspaper once again—“it says here that things are looking up and maybe there’s an end in sight. That’d be good, wouldn’t it? You’d like to see an end to the war, I expect?”
    Alfie nodded. He’d finished with the left shoe by now and had started on the right. This was a direct question. It required an answer.
    â€œI would, sir, yes,” he said.
    â€œWell, of course you would. Everyone would. Heavens above, boy, that’s a fine shine there on that shoe. You should do this for a living.”
    â€œI already do,” muttered Alfie quietly.
    â€œI tell all my colleagues at the bank about you. I expect you’ve seen a few of them here? You should have me on commission, you really should. Or at least give me a free shine every now and then.” He laughed when he said this, but Alfie didn’t think he was joking. He put his head down and got on with his polishing.
    â€œAll done?” asked Mr. Podgett finally when Alfie gave them a last dusting and sat up to admire his work.
    â€œYes, sir,” said Alfie.
    â€œVery good.” He stood up and threw a penny in Alfie’s cap, hesitating for a moment as he looked down at the boy. “I did my best for him, of course,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. “Maybe if I could go back … but you can’t, can you?” He shook his head, and now he was almost whispering. “Even if you wanted to.” Alfie stared at him, uncertain what he was expected to say, and Mr. Podgett looked back with a sorrowful expression on his face and simply shook his head. “You remind me a little of him, you know,” he